Grief
by WerewolfDoctor
Summary: How does John cope with the death of his sister?


They were in the morgue when John got the call. His face whitened and he started shaking. He clutched his mobile like it was the last thing left on Earth. Sherlock watched him, observed, as he always did.

"Harry?" Sherlock asked.

John suddenly swung round and gave him a powerful right hook. Sherlock staggered back, blood pouring from his nose. "Just for once," John yelled, "for once, could you not deduce every last stupid thing?" There was a deathly silence in the morgue. They had seen John angry before, but they had never been frightened of him, and this uncontrollable, wild rage terrified them.

"Sorry," Sherlock started babbling, which was in itself surprising because _Sherlock never apologised_, "it was just an automatic reaction-"

"No, I'm sorry," John interrupted, looking guilty, "I shouldn't have lost my temper." He looked so hopeless and lost that Sherlock almost wished that John was punching him again, because the hopelessness was worse than the anger. Perhaps it came from being soldier and a doctor, but even when he was angry, or upset, John always had the air of control, except for now.

Lestrade stood by, wanting desperately to ask what was going on, but he could see that whatever news John had just received had devastated him, and Lestrade knew the best thing he could do was to keep silent. For now at least. He just hoped that for once Sherlock wouldn't be too much of an insensitive prat.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but for the first time in Lestrade's memory, no words came out of Sherlock's mouth. Lestrade got the feeling Sherlock was trying to say something sympathetic and kind and trying to work out what would be a sympathetic and kind thing to say, since he usually seemed to get it wrong. Lestrade guessed he was also, like him, attempting to figure out exactly what had happened to upset John. John looked at Sherlock with a half fond, half knowing expression, obviously aware the mystery must be driving him mad.

"She's dead. Car accident. I always told her the drinking would kill her some day, but …" John looked down.

"But you thought it would be liver disease or some other alcohol related illness, you weren't prepared for it so soon."

"People never are. You see that as a doctor. Even as a soldier, though you would've thought on the battlefield …" His voice had an empty, far away quality and his eyes were focused on a point just over Sherlock's shoulder.

"If - if there's anything I can do …" If the situation hadn't been so serious Lestrade would've laughed at the almost childlike look on Sherlock's face: completely unsure what to do, but trying his best all the same.

John snorted. "Sherlock, I don't think I have the strength to deal with your attempts at being comforting, but thanks for the offer,"

Sherlock hid a small smile. If John was making a joke then that was a good sign, "Probably for the best, but I think you need to go home, John. Let Mrs Hudson fill you up with tea,"

"I'll get one of the police cars to take you," said Lestrade, bending the rules, as he often did for the pair.

John went, avoiding looking at the dead bodies that filled the morgue. He slowly pulled himself together, the soldier in him not letting him grieve for fallen friends for long. There would be time for that later. There was a brief silence, until, "Could someone get me a tissue and some ice? John has a hell of a right hook."

Lestrade let out a sudden laugh as he released the pent up tension. It was just so … Sherlock. One problem was dealt with, now onto the next, "OK. But can you tell me what's going on?" he said, before whipping out his phone to get the tissues and ice.

"Harry is short for Harriet, and is John's sister, she's had a long term drinking problem, since before myself and John met. I knew the news that John had received was about his sister because the phone on which he received that news was a gift from his sister, and if you notice he clutched it in a way people tend to do with items of emotional significance, especially after receiving upsetting news, like John just did."

Unfortunately, at that moment, Sally Donavan walked in with the tissues and ice. And laughed. "Who punched the Freak?" she snorted, "I want to give him a medal."

"Donavan put the stuff down and get out." Lestrade snapped. Donavan paused at the DI's ice-cold tone and steely gaze. It was a tone and look rarely heard and seen, but when heard and seen, obeyed without question. Donavan scurried out as fast as she could. A small voice reminded Lestrade that Donavan and Sherlock were always insulting each other, in fact, compared to some of their other insults, this was practically tame, but the situation … she couldn't have known, he would have to apologise and explain later.

Later, when Sherlock was tending to his swollen nose (thankfully not broken) and had solved the case (it was the wife, of course it was the wife) he muttered, "Impressive, really,"

"Sorry," said Lestrade, "but what's impressive?"

"John's left handed, but he was shot in his left shoulder, meaning he does most things with his right hand," _including shooting people_ thought Sherlock, but didn't say. It was the unspoken secret that Lestrade had worked out pretty quickly; John had shot the Killer Cabbie, but he never said, because that would mean having to arrest John. _An already impressive shot made even more impressive_. Sherlock chuckled, "Including, it seems, punching me. And he does it well."

Sherlock arrived back at the flat and sent a questioning glance to Mrs Hudson, "He's fine, dear. Bit quieter than usual, but then, he hasn't got you to talk to, and he's not in the habit of talking to skulls. Though he does look even smaller than usual somehow,"

Sherlock found John slumped in the armchair, "John?" John glanced at him.

"Not broken. Just swollen. Thank God."

"What? Oh, my nose. I told you, it's fine,"

"Sherlock," said John, as if he was speaking to an idiot, "I _punched_ you-"

"And I pushed Mycroft down the stairs when Mummy died. Quite an achievement since he's seven years older than me and was rather larger than me at the time,"

"Yes, but you hate him anyway,"

"Actually, that was the beginning of our rivalry. Believe me John, I understand the desire to lash out,"Sherlock said with a brief wistful look on his face. John resisted the temptation to point out that Mycroft did seem to be trying to make amends with Sherlock, even if that involved casually kidnapping Sherlock's new flatmates and regularly insulting him. Then again, with the Holmes brothers one could never expect normality.

They were silent for a period until John said, "I'm glad I've got you around, Sherlock, even if you are stumbling and awkward when it comes to these sorts of things. The fact that you're trying means so much more."

And that was that.

John soon rejoined Sherlock on his cases, and everyone soon learnt that the last thing John wanted was to be treated like he was about to break at any moment. John liked to keep his mind occupied, but he would have periods of complete silence where he seemed to fall into deep contemplation. Everybody knew what he was thinking about, and nobody spoke of it.

In one case John was standing was standing in the corner of the bloodstained study in one of his silent periods, and Sherlock was telling them the dead man's life history with a little less relish than usual. They had learnt it was best to leave John be at times like these, they knew he would snap out of soon; he never brooded for long. Lestrade wandered past John when he suddenly spoke.

"We didn't speak," Lestrade was almost glad John wasn't looking at him.

"Sorry?"

"Harry and me. We never really got on, even when we were kids. It's just, I can't help wondering if I had talked to her, managed to convince her to stop drinking …"

"I know," said Lestrade in a soft, understanding voice. John looked up, surprised. "I'm a police officer, John. I hear it a lot. '_Maybe it was my fault … Maybe there was something I could have done._' Believe me, it's not your fault; there's nothing you could have done. It was an accident. Tragic, yes, and I know hearing it now will be little comfort to you, but if you let yourself believe it was in anyway your fault it will destroy you."

Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder, gave him a small smile and said, "You've been through a lot, Doctor Watson. If you ever need to talk to a friend who isn't Sherlock Holmes, call me. Here's my number," and for the first time in weeks John truly smiled.

"Thanks."


End file.
